Friday was my day off, and it was also laundry day, and heavy lifting day at the gym. This meant I slept in late—till eight a.m, which, in a doctor’s world, is late—ate a big breakfast, gathered up every last stitch of clothing I owned, except for a pair of skin-tight workout shorts, my tightest sports bra, and a long, loose tank top.
I started a load of laundry and then headed over to the gym. I worked the free weights until I was jelly all over, hit Jamba Juice for a big protein shake, switched loads…and headed to lunch. Usually on Fridays I caught a movie between lunch and the rest of the laundry, but today I didn’t feel like it.
I was restless.
I worked out harder than I ever had, pushing myself until I couldn’t physically bang out even one more rep, even if my life had depended on it.
The whole time I was tossing clothes from washer to dryer and folding dry clothes, I was conflicted mentally. I’ve had a rule since my residency that I never ever think about work when I’m off—I don’t ever bring work home with me. It’s the only way to stay sane. The problem today, though, was that if I didn’t think about work, I’d be thinking about Thresh.
And that was a bad idea.
I didn’t dare think about what his torso had looked like, after I cut his bloody shirt off. How massive his biceps were, how thick his pectorals were. How flat and hard and defined his abs were. God, definitely do NOT think about that stupid, beautiful V where his abs grooved in and angled under his desert camo military pants. I don’t know what they’re called, camos? Uniform pants? Whatever. The V disappeared under that waistband like an arrow pointing the way to the Promised Land.
Only… I DON’T WANT TO GO THERE.
I don’t.
Really fucking really, I don’t.
But I just couldn’t stop thinking about him.
That growl, his voice in my ear…so full of sexual hunger and lascivious promise. His eyes on me. The fact that his expression, never mind his words, tells me he really does find me attractive.
Okay, fine, so I’ve got a bit of an issue with self-confidence. There’s a reason, though, and it’s not really about how I’m built. I work my fucking ass off to stay in shape. I’m strong as hell—I’m just not small. No part of me is small. I’ve got thick thighs, thick arms, and my waist isn’t waif-thin. But my arms are thick with muscle, and my thighs too. My tits are pretty much perfect, which even I can admit—assuming you like huge knockers. And my ass is—yes, big—but also round and taut and pretty damn firm, but with just enough jiggle and sway to it to remind you that I’m all woman.
I work hard to look the way I do.
I’m just…not thin.
But this is not the problem I have, mentally and emotionally, with myself. I don’t care about being thin, I swear. I love myself, I love my body, and I have no desire or need to lose weight.
The real reason for my insecurity is…complicated. Delves deep into the most traumatic part of my past, to things I don’t think about, and certainly don’t ever, ever, ever talk about.
But Thresh didn’t know any of this. All he knew is that he liked what he saw. And he wanted what he saw.
But…what did I do about it?
Three years ago I swore that I’d never trust a male again. And I haven’t. There’s been interest. I’ve been asked out and hit on, guys at the gym trying to bring me home for casual sex, fellow doctors looking for more than casual sex…I rejected them all out of hand, didn’t even think twice. None of them so much as made me hesitate. Just no. Nope. No way. Not interested, thanks anyway.
But Thresh, god…he does something to me. To my head, to my body. Even my cold, dead heart seems to feel some kind of something when he’s around.
But how could I trust him? Even for something casual? God, perish the thought. I could never do casual. Never ever. Even before everything that happened to make me the way I am, I couldn’t have done casual. But now? Fuck no. Hell no, fuck no, oh my fucking god…NO.
So then where does that leave me, in terms of Thresh’s interest in me? No way is a guy like him looking for anything more than quick and casual. He flew in to Miami just to get me to fix him, which means he’s mobile. He can and will go anywhere, anytime, on a whim. I’m tied here, to Miami, to the hospital; it’s home, and I have no reason to leave.
Plus, he’s just bad news. Everything about him screams player, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I get played by another player.
Also, he treated getting shot twice like it was a common occurrence. More of an inconvenience than anything else, really, is how he acted. I got the feeling I could have treated his wounds without anesthetic if I’d had to, and he wouldn’t have flinched. A man only gets that kind of tough from long experience, and the scars I saw on his body told the story clearly enough.
He is, to put it in precise terms, a very, very dangerous man. I don’t need to know anything else about him to know that. He just exudes danger and threat, and it’s not just because of his size. I mean, yeah, he’s seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of pure muscle, but he just…it’s just his very essence. He’s deadly. It seeps from his very pores.
And that scares the spit out of me.
Literally, it leaves me dry-mouthed.
But then…the dry-mouth could also be from the potency of my attraction to him.
Which presents the problem.
I’m terrified of him. Attracted to him so powerfully that it scrambles my brain and leaves my hormones in turmoil.
But…I can’t trust him. He’s a man, for one thing. And he’s obviously a player used to getting what he wants on his own terms, and my feelings and my future won’t factor into that. Plus, he’s not from Miami, which means it doesn’t matter what either of us want or intend, it can’t amount to anything anyway.
All the evidence tells me to stay clear of him, keep away, shut him down, close him out, do what I do and don’t give him another thought.
But my brain doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to wisdom.
Because all damn day, my thoughts kept returning to goddamn Thresh.
By the time all of my laundry was washed and dried and folded, it was quarter to six in the evening and I was carrying my clothes home, lost in thought, fighting to keep Thresh off my mind. I was still in my workout shorts and tank top, and I never took a shower at the gym, so I stank like old sweat, my hair was a messy rat’s nest pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. I hauled my laundry up the stairs, because I vowed years ago to never use the elevator and that’s a vow I’ve kept.
By the time I reached my door, I was already looking forward to stripping off, taking a shower, pouring a bottle of wine into my favorite holds-a-whole-bottle wine glass, and watching stupid TV. I was sweating again, because I just carried six loads of laundry up three flights of stairs, and the strap of my tank top was coming off my shoulder, leaving pretty much my entire left breast exposed. I was juggling the laundry basket and my purse, trying to get my keys out without setting down the basket, not really looking where I was going, because why would I? My door was at the end of the hallway, so there wouldn’t ever be anyone coming toward me.
I bumped into something, bounced away, dropping my laundry basket, my purse, and my keys. My laundry exploded, everything unfolding and scattering all over the fucking floor, panties, bras, shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, blouses, all over the place. And my purse…upended. All my shit rolled over the floor. Tampons, pads, keys, wallet, gum, receipts, sunglasses, all the shit a woman keeps in her purse.
And me? I landed on my ass on the floor, stunned, confused, and pissed.
When I looked up and saw Thresh leaning back against my door, arm in a sling across his body, good hand stuffed into the hip pocket of a pair of dark blue jeans, that hair of his in the ridiculous, amazing fucking mohawk, eyes like ice chips glinting amusement, and a black polo stretched across his chest and around his arms…god…dressed casually but so fucking sexy, almost preppy for a guy like him.
I just gaped
at him for several seconds, staring, mouth working, brain spasming, trying and failing rather significantly to come up with something to say, some kind of appropriate response.
He beat me to it. “Evenin’, Doc.” He said this with a cocky grin, as if he knew exactly the effect he was having on me.
Bastard.
That got my cylinders all firing again. “What the fuck, Thresh?”
He had a massive watch on his wrist, a huge black rubber-encased thing, expensive looking, some kind of fancy tactical military chronograph, probably. “Just shy of six, and it’s Friday. We have a date.”
My mouth flapped open and closed a couple times. “No. We don’t.”
“Yes, we do. I told you before you left my room the other day that I’d pick you up today at six.”
I finally stood up, brushed my butt off, and then stomped over to stand in front of Thresh, staring up at him angrily. “That’s not how asking a girl out works, Thresh. You don’t tell her you’re going out. You ask, politely, and if she says yes, then you have a date. You gave orders, and I declined to respond. That means we don’t have a date.”
He just stared down at me, holding his ground, unperturbed. “You didn’t say no. You didn’t answer, and don’t make it out like you did that shit on purpose. You ran off like a skittish pony. Couldn’t handle the intensity of the moment.”
Fuck him and his truth.
I turned away, knelt down and started replacing the contents of my purse. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” I cut myself off with an angry huff, and then started over again. “So I’m a horse, now?”
“What I said was ‘like a skittish pony’, actually, which isn’t the same. But if you want to take it that way, sure.”
I stood up abruptly, whirling to face him, ready to deck him, foot of height difference and hundred and fifty pounds of muscle difference be damned. “Are you fucking serious?” I even went to slap him, but missed, on account of the fact that he was crouched a couple feet away, re-folding my clothes and putting them in the basket.
His big, rough, callused, powerful paws—clean, albeit, and yes, I noticed that his hands were clean—were all over my clothes. Rolling my size twelve panties into messy balls, stuffing one cup of my bra inside out and folding it in half…but not before checking the tag: 34DD. Folding my yoga pants into thirds, and folding my blouse sleeves in first, hem up, then collar down.
Folding my female clothes as if he knew exactly how to fold a woman’s clothes. An odd skill for a man like him to have. And kind of impressive, especially considering he was doing most of it one-handed, only occasionally using the hand of his wounded arm.
I watched in puzzled wonder for a moment, then remembered that I was angry at him, and also pissed and embarrassed that he was handling my clothes and checking the tags for sizes…
“Fuck off, Thresh. Get your dirty paws off my clothes, and quit checking the fucking tags, you goddamned asshole.” I snatched my favorite pencil skirt out of his hands and shoved him away. “You have the balls to call me a fucking horse, and then you’re gonna look at the tag on my bra? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He stood up, unfolding himself like a tree growing in time-lapse. “You mistake me, Doc. Or, more accurately, you assume that being compared to a horse is a negative, that I’d mean it as an insult.” He stalked toward me on feet entirely too quiet, entirely too lithe and graceful for a man of his size. He stood in front of me, snatched the skirt from me, and folded it deftly, then stood towering over me, eyes fierce and serious. “Horses are incredible animals, Lola. They’re powerful, graceful, intelligent, and beautiful. It’s a compliment, to be compared to a horse. Yes, horses are bigger than people, but a horse is one of the most beautiful animals there is, Doc. So even if that’s what I had said to you, it would have been a compliment, not an insult.”
“I—” Fuck him again, for having a point. But I didn’t manage to respond, even if I had known what to say, because he wasn’t done.
“As for checking the tags? Sure, I’ll cop to that.” He managed to move even closer to me, and his gaze was…hypnotic. Fierce and fiery and glittering with a wealth of emotions. He seemed…angry. With me? For me? It was hard to tell. “You embarrassed, Lola?” He waited until it was clear he expected a response. “You embarrassed that I know what size bra you wear?”
“Yes, Thresh, I’m embarrassed. I don’t even know you, and you’re folding my fucking underwear?”
A brief smirk broke his serious expression for a heartbeat. “You swear as much as I do, you know that? And I’m a soldier.”
“That bothers you?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. It’s sexy.” He touched my chin with one finger. “But that’s not what I meant. Yeah, sure, be embarrassed that a dude you just met is folding your underwear. I get that. But I don’t think that’s why you’re pissed.”
“Then enlighten me, if you know so much.” I regretted the challenge as soon as it left my mouth, because somehow I had no doubt he would proceed to do exactly that, and do it far too accurately.
“You’re pissed I looked at the tags. And not even because it was a rude, nosy, asshole thing to do, but because you’re embarrassed about the numbers on the tags.”
“Fuck you.” This was said in a small voice, though.
“Funny part is, you don’t really seem insecure.” The genuine confusion in his voice brought my eyes up to his. “That’s what I can’t figure out.”
“You figure that out, let me know. Then at least one of us will be in the know.” I took the folded skirt from his hands and placed it in the basket.
His hand latched onto my wrist, and he brought me back around. “You’re fucking sexy as hell, Lola.” He touched my chin again, and I forced myself to look up at him, to meet his gaze. “You’re seriously beautiful. In every way there is, from head to toe.”
“Thanks.” I pulled away from him, tossed the rest of the unfolded clothes back into the basket in a wadded-up ball, then turned away from him to unlock my door. “Still not going out with you.” I shoved open my door and went in, kicking my laundry basket in ahead of me.
“Why not? Tell me that much, at least.” He had the balls, of course, to follow me into my condo.
I whirled on him, shoved him backward, using all my strength to do so. “Because I don’t want to, you fucking ogre!”
To my credit, and my very great surprise, he actually stumbled backward a couple of steps; he seemed legitimately shocked himself.
He barely made it past the threshold before I tried to slam the door on him. The door ended up hitting his foot and his injured arm, eliciting a narrowing of his eyes and a tightening of his jaw.
“You’re a shitty liar, Doc,” he growled.
I sighed. “Fine. You want me to spell it out for you? I don’t want to go out with you for a lot of reasons. I don’t want to go out with you because you never asked. You told me, and assumed I’d say yes. You show up at my house unexpected—and how the hell do you know where I live, anyway? That’s fucking creepy. Third—or is it fourth? I’ve lost count.” I waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t want to go out with you because you scare me. You make me nervous. You’re dangerous, in a lot of ways, and I live a safe and simple life. That’s how I want it, and that’s how I like it, and you’d mess that all up.”
He nodded, his face pensive and thoughtful. “That’s a lot of reasons. I guess I can respect that thinking.” He sidled closer to me, in that predatory way he had, standing close enough that his heat radiated against me and I could smell cologne, spicy and silky and dizzyingly delicious. “But you’re still a shitty liar.”
“I’m not—” I had to back up, away from him, away from the intoxicating scent, away from his massive, overwhelming presence. “I’m not lying.”
He had the gall to smirk. “Are too. You want to go out with me, but you don’t want to want to. Just like you want me, but you don’t want that desire. It makes you uncomfortable. It scares you. You said it, Doc: I sca
re you.”
“Thresh—”
He backed away from me. “But you said you don’t want to, and I’ve never pushed myself on a woman. She says no thanks, I back off. Just…do yourself a favor, Lola.”
I swallowed hard. “What’s that?”
“Try to be honest with yourself about why you don’t want to go out with me, if you can’t be honest with me.”
I shook my head, irritated at his insight and his persistence. “You’re impossible.” I was the one to move closer to him, this time, letting the welter of emotions I was feeling flare up into my voice and my expression. “Yes, I’m attracted to you. You’re an attractive man, Thresh. I don’t deny the effect you have on me. But you’re a risk I’m just not willing to take. And that is the honest truth.”
Respect filled his features. “All right then.” He backed up a step, then two, and then put his hand on my doorknob. “You’re somethin’ else, Lola Reed.”
He twisted the knob and opened the door. He seemed to be…hesitating, or going slow, maybe hoping I’d change my mind. And, honestly, part of me wanted to. Part of me was screaming at me, telling me a man like Thresh didn’t come along very often, and a man genuinely interested in me didn’t come along very frequently either. I’d be a fool to let him go.
But my fear, my years of conditioning myself against men, against trust, against relationships of any kind…that part was winning out. I just couldn’t make myself let go. Wanting him, wanting…everything that would come along with a relationship with him, however brief it may be—that wasn’t strong enough to overcome my deep-seated fear.
But I still felt the disappointment as he turned away from me. I’d hoped maybe he’d push a little, try a little harder to get past my walls. Maybe it’s stupid storybook nonsense, but I’d kind of hoped he’d try to force me past my fear, you know?
But that was stupid.
I’d told him no, and he was listening. That’s the gentlemanly, respectful, thoughtful thing to do.
I was about to turn around. He was outside, closing the door behind himself. With more than a little regret bubbling inside me, I watched that sliver of light from outside narrow as he closed the door, vanishing from my life forever.